The American author depresses me; he makes me feel commonplace and new
and unballasted. I always feel as if I were the 'millionth woman in
superfluous herds'; and when one of those terrible American authors
attacks my type, and carves me up for the delectation of the public, I
shall go back to Wales, nor ever emerge from my towers again. And they
are so cool and calm and deliberate, and so horribly exact, even the
lesser lights. They always remind me of a medical student watching the
workings of the exposed nervous system of a chloroformed hare."
Dartmouth looked at her with some intensity in his gaze. "I am glad
your ideas are so singularly like my own," he said. "It is rather
remarkable they should be, but so it is. You have even a way of
putting your thoughts that strikes me as familiar, and which, out of
my natural egotism, I find attractive. But I wish you would go back to
your old castle; the world will spoil you."
"I shall return in a month or two now; my father is lonely without
me."
"I suppose he spoils you," said Dartmouth, smiling.
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